


His Captain

by 7veilsphaedra



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7veilsphaedra/pseuds/7veilsphaedra
Summary: 10 Years and a Grand Slam Pro career later, Tezuka reconsiders his choices.
Relationships: Fuji Shuusuke/Tezuka Kunimitsu
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	His Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Tenisu no Ōjisama universe.

There’s the dayplanner on the nightstand. Carve the years into hourly blocks allocated to different exercise and training techniques, to the study of opponents, the examination and practice of new techniques. Map out the phone calls; ten minutes to this banker, five minutes to that field house official, ten minutes to that sports writer….

“Your mother’s birthday?—Take twenty minutes! The agency has sent her a bouquet and a gift certificate.”

Rise at five every morning after precisely seven hours of sleep every night. Run for an hour, uphill and down if there are hills, or over the sand of the beach if there is a sandy beach, or use the treadmill or stairclimber on the “random difficult” setting if there are neither. When the swimming pool looks large and clean enough, use one of the lanes for lengths. The butterfly stroke is excellent for the shoulders; frog kicks and whip kicks work the hips and thighs especially well. Always push it a little further. If the body feels heavier than usual, ignore it; the symptoms are purely psychological.

Shower, shave and tidy the room. Sure, housekeeping will whirl through it later but at least it’s presentable. No disorder to wear down concentration.

The specially ordered breakfast arrives: miso with shitake, green onion and tofu chunks, baked fish and whole rice seasoned with mirin and kombu, steamed mustard greens or cabbage and carrot slivers, whole-egg omelette with bean sprouts three times a week, half a mango, or papaya, or pineapple with yoghurt. No coffee or black tea. Green tea is fine. Herbal tea is fine if it is not diuretic. Anything consumed that the nutritionist hasn’t recommended, mark down so that it can be discussed later. Every morsel has been calculated to meet every nutritional need. Ignore the empty feeling that remains after breakfast is finished. _It’s purely psychological._

Drive or walk to the practice courts. Examine equipment, footwear, exercise gear. Discard items that are too worn. Send that racquet to be restrung.

_Not that one though._

No one touches the one with strings that look like sixties Op Art. It was designed to create a special tension for setting off just the right spin. His gift. His personal design. _Remember how he flipped the racquet to build the spin?_ The gift has never been used, a waste really. Instead it is carried everywhere, like a sacred object, a relic, a shriveled appendage of the past.

Circuit-training. Work with the bicycles and weights stations. Try to bring speed and power up to optimum. When muscles tremble, move onto the next station. Cross-train, core strengthen, stretch with the yoga straps and blocks. Circle through for a couple of hours. The temptation isn’t about stopping too soon. It’s about going too far. The trainers and physiotherapists have already stopped mincing words over this regimen, but it’s hard to stop punishing the body when the thought lingers that it is treacherous and one has already been betrayed by it in the past.

Record the results in the dayplanner. Check the calculations. Check the graphs. _Is there improvement?_

Consume fruit and small snacks designed to keep blood pressure, blood sugars and potassium levels stable. Take it easy on the salt. No refined carbohydrates. No sugar.

_Which city is this again? Sydney? There’s supposed to be mountains somewhere near here. What were they called again?_ Picture something smooth-sided and worn, covered with chaparral and natural forest within which the trees, under blusters of wind, look like they are dancing. How great it would be to run under some cool boughs again, to see the play of leafy shadow and sunlight on the path again, to smell the freshness of earth and eucalyptus. It has been ages since there was time to climb mountains and to explore the paths through forests. It’s been ages since anything felt that easy and natural, really. _Not since …_ Careful with that twitch, that tendency to glance to the side like some sort of nervous tic because nobody’s standing there. No one’s stood there for a long time.

Talk to the coaches, the trainers, the masseuse. When trainers aren’t available, monitor biofeedback with machines, stopwatches, pedometers, blood pressure cuffs, ketosis analyzers, weight scales … Everything is marked into The Book, the scripture of his body. The ghost of Inui’s presence falls like breath upon the shoulder, looking over his book, manna for the lotus eaters of sport, those who get high on stats.

“How’s Ayana-san? Did you wish her a happy birthday yet? Did she like the bouquet our medical associates sent her?”

Practice strokes for two hours, left hand then right. Clock the speed on that underspin. _Not heavy enough!_ Try flipping the racquet … _like he did …_

Lunch: rice balls play havoc with insulin, but buckwheat soba with various seafood, meat and vegetables is alright, providing there’s no MSG. This day, there will be a cucumber and green pea salad with strips of coloured pepper, and perhaps some fruit sorbet or gelato for dessert. If not, it’s just one of the day’s many imperfections.

There are good days and less than stellar days. There are days when the lingering sense of dissatisfaction and lack of completion is less present and less acute. There are days when the tiny flaws which interrupt that perfect schedule are less disruptive than others, but there are never completely perfect days. A perfect day is no longer possible. He didn’t even know that year as Captain was the standard against which everything else would be held.

Meet at the investment brokerage. Discuss the commodities market and foreign exchange. After so many years amortization, what percentage of the investment in that real estate will have been eaten up by interest payments? Would money in that waterfront condo development be well-spent? Mutual funds, venture capital, foreign investments, so boring, so heavy, so stultifying, it makes one’s very muscles feel atrophied. Still, _this salary must stretch across a lifespan._ Tennis careers never last long.

Speaking of condos, it’s been two years, six months, a week, three days, and … _to hell with figuring out the minutes!—_ Since it’s been used, less than six months after it was bought. Try to remember what it looks like, but the only image that comes to mind is of a wooden feature wall the colour of warm caramel and the short, slender young man who leaned against it. A relief image rises of glossy hair almost the same shade as the wood, of creamy skin, and piercing eyes sheathed in long lashes. The image is a snare, _a trap._ It catches the mind and the breath and holds them there, unable to move on.

“Farewell, Tezuka-kun.” Grand Slam couldn’t hold the focus of those eyes.

“I’m sorry, the stakes just aren’t high enough for me,” a treacherous smile for bitter words. _Lies! The competitive streak burned in you most of all._ “All the same, do your best! May it take you far.”

Even after that disastrous end to their middle school years, when the prodigy went from having never lost a match to seemingly being unable to win, the urge to rule in tennis had already been supplanted by another urge. Competitions had lost their freshness. He was already searching for more meaning.

“Sayonara,” the word which came to mean Syuusuke.

Tezuka suddenly feels wan, spares a contemptuous sigh at the ability of emotions to undermine the most rigorous discipline. Even after all this time, he cannot feel accustomed to the lack of Fuji at his side. There is a vacuum in the place where Fuji used to walk, a hollow space where his spirit implodes.

Afternoon matches. Sign the autographs. Court the sponsors. Display the products. Wear the logos. Never make them look bad. Tilt the right side of the face toward the cameras for publicity shots. Make sure the sponsor’s branding always shows.

Discuss the body’s infinite minutia with orthopædists and alignment specialists, physiotherapists, nutritionists, sports medicine specialists, sports equipment specialists … At least he no longer requires the services of opthamologists, as his farsightedness has been fixed with laser surgery. How many of the Regulars besides Fuji and Ryouma guessed that, because he could only clearly see the ball while it was in his opponents’ court, he compensated by developing a spin which would rebound the ball straight back into his strike zone?

“Did you hear about Yoshi? Forced into early retirement now that arthritis has set into his S. I. joint? —All because he didn’t wear prosthetic inserts in his left shoe for one season. Shouldn’t’ve listened to that unqualified chiropodist.”

“The average career of a top professional male athlete is—what? Three years? Five years?”

“Careful with the way that backhand causes your rhomboids to contract.”

“No, we don’t recommend this … painkiller, muscle relaxant, cold medication, allergy relief, herbal infusion…”

“If your rotator cuff starts giving you problems again, we’ll discuss cortisone shots.”

Update with the agency and its lawyers, discuss contingency agreements, exclusivity clauses, salaries, media sponsorships, dispute mediation and resolution … more boredom, more need to focus extra carefully. Decide upon the satellite tours. Sign up.

A thimble of saki for the heart at dinner. Not really hungry, but choke down the obligatory whole grains, four ounces of lean protein or tofu, two cups of steamed or raw vegetables anyway. Yakitori is fine; yakiniku is better; shabu-shabu is best of all. Turnip greens with goma are quite tasty, although rarely available. Teppanyaki vegetables or gyuudon are fine if the rice is whole and not too much oil is used. That has too much salt. That has too much sugar. That has too much fat. No cola—well, no soda-pop whatsoever; he’s not a kid anymore—no chocolate. No this. No that. No, none of the other thing either.

Not even relaxation belongs to him anymore.

“This is your meditation coach.”

“This is your guided visualization coach.”

“Your acupuncturist is also trained in shiatsu and reiki.”

“Why don’t you let our psychological counselors suggest some soothing music selections and reading choices to help your mind slow down for sleep?”

Absolutely everything is geared to bring him into top championship form.

Except when it isn’t.

“Here is your English tutor. Right on time!”

“Brown isn’t your colour.”

“Green isn’t your colour.”

“Yes, we know you prefer to stay at owner-operated hotels, but that chain provides your entourage with rooms and meals for free. Had you planned to pay for rest of them, too?”

“This woman is an expert in western customs and manners. Let her teach you the proper comportment for formal banquets.”

 _Think! It isn’t as though my words will carry such weight._ Sports banquets are hardly state dinners. _Not like his._

Fuji had chosen to take the Olympics route, a means to an end for, after winning his bronze, it led to politics, international politics, foreign affairs. There was something about the way the Fuji’s birthday fell on the same year as the Olympics, like predestination or the closest thing to it that Tezuka would acknowledge, some lingering sense of appropriateness.

The last time Tezuka caught sight of those eyes, Fuji was on television in the midst of a scrum, speaking as a representative at the World Court in Den Hague, a new court, an entirely different level of game.

Tezuka had been at Wimbledon at the time, booked into a boutique hotel. He had just taken a bath and strode into the living room where the television was on, stationed to the BBC. Heat and moisture permeated his skin, softening all his hard angles and whipcord muscles, the only time his body relaxed into sensuality. He felt vulnerable when that familiar voice drew his eyes to the screen where they fell upon that familiar face.

He had been shocked into stillness. His breath had actually stopped.

The eyes were unmistakable, upturned crescents of lashes, beaming out gentle persuasion, until—magic words!—a reporter challenged him with something which triggered his protective instincts, the gauntlet thrown. There they were, unsheathed, scintillating like arctic water.

Tezuka’s heart started to pound. He sank onto the mattress of his bed. It was as though Fuji could see right through the television into that room, clear into Tezuka’s mind.

Tezuka had swallowed hard. His throat felt especially tight. What were these insane thoughts? He couldn’t understand what was happening. His body—his body was reacting involuntarily to Fuji. He looked down where his— _involuntary reaction_ was reacting involuntarily under the towel he had wrapped around his waist. Molten shame poured over Tezuka.

Fortunately, the telephone rang before he could concede his utter defeat.

“Make sure you let the publicist screen that reporter’s questions first.”

“Gold isn’t your colour.”

“Off-white isn’t your colour.”

“Wish your mother a happy birthday for us. The secretary sent her a little token of our esteem. She likes gift baskets, doesn’t she?”

“Those shoes may very well be much more comfortable, but somebody from the States got the exclusive rights for that brand, whereas this corporation wants you for theirs.”

“Red is definitely your colour, but it’s too feminine. Stick to blue.”

When he parts his lips to protest, to say something curt and sarcastic about having a hard-won adulthood stolen, the agent smoothly steps in. Tezuka never has to speak, really. He is good at communicating with tiny inflections of energy directed in the right places. The agent is good at interpreting them accurately. Aside from that he’s also one of the best at his job, it’s really why Tezuka signed on with him.

“Yes, it is tiresome, but this is why we hire the experts. They will make you look good. And when you look good, you make more money. Can you please place yourself in their hands?”

Yes, he can and he does. And bit by bit, he feels himself given away. And it’s fine, considering what his ultimate aims are.

What were his ultimate aims again?

Oh yes, _Grand Slam_ ... Why doesn’t that feel like enough?

_It was never meant to happen this way._

He has no idea where this conviction came from, that he and Fuji were always meant to work together. It belies his reason and anything capable of that confounds him. Six, almost seven months have passed since Wimbledon, although even the memory of it tends to provoke more disturbances in his body. To his utter mortification, he has used the memory of those eyes and that treacherous smile in fantasies while he relieved his sexual tension. Entire years have passed since he last saw the prodigy in person, and he still can’t stop sending glances out the corner of his eyes to the place where Fuji once stood, where he was meant to stand, where he no longer stands, the place where Tezuka’s energy ebbs like the outflow of a powerful tide.

_It was my fault. I couldn’t inspire him._

Tennis fans, male and female alike, line up for the former captain of the Seigaku Regulars. No more than they do for every other sports star; Tezuka is determined not to let any of it go to his head. He has fielded oaths of undying affection, pleas for sex, marriage and fishy sorts of employment, entire texts meant to titillate him with how lusty fans would let him use them, or what they could do to him if he so desired. He has had uninvited strangers show up nude in his bed and was forced to change his cell number on at least three occasions.

He remembers the slithery crawl up his spine when his agent delivered the first packages, gifts of jewellery, private garments, drugs, sex toys, photos of the most intimate parts of people’s bodies and DVD recordings of things Tezuka never imagined possible, even items which could seriously qualify as biomedical waste.

 _That couldn’t be normal, could it?_ But in the back of his mind, there’s always the question: _What if it is? What if I’m the one who is behaving unnaturally?_

His manager has been instructed to carefully screen his fan mail and keep records of those who cross the line should a police investigation become necessary but, most emphatically, to reseal the packages and return them to their senders without reply, without anything that might be construed as a hope or a chance. There are ample delusions of love around for him to observe, if he weren’t so stoic and uninterested. Still, he wants to know: _Where did I lose him? Why did Syuusuke lose faith in me?_

The thought that there might be another captain in Fuji’s life jolts him to the core. He cannot bear it. The vision of the prodigy— _my prodigy!_ —walking alongside another man, jealousy uncoils like a snake in his solar plexus. Fearsome, white-hot rage, poised to strike, ready to hurt the usurper, smash him to the court, humiliate him with defeat. He could drop to the bed on his stomach. He could smother his face in the pillow, writhe with the unfulfilled yearning of it, choke on the wrath.

Except that bone-dry, reasonable voice kicks in: _Have you any idea how imbecilic this is? What’s gotten into you? How could you let something like this affect you? Go for another run. Work it off. Take another look at that amortization schedule again._

Fuji will always be safe from anything like an irrational, obsessive infatuation because, contrary to what his team-mates used to say about him, Tezuka is the owner of a surprisingly strong sense of humour. He always could laugh at himself. Quietly. From the inside. Even when it felt like inverted suffering. Or especially when it felt like that. Like bitter swallowed regret. He’s got it all under control.

It is seven o’clock, time for the evening run. Pull on a fresh track suit. Lace up the running shoes. Grab his keys and his wallet and—the cellphone rings.

_Oishi?_ It’s been years.

“Tezuka?”

“Hai.”

“It’s about Ryusake-Sensei–” Oishi stumbles over the words, awkward. “The old woman, she’s‒”

This is how Tezuka learned that Ryusake Sumire had died.

“When?”

“Just twenty minutes ago. Her family called me. I’m still at the hospital.”

“How?”

“Her heart stopped. It was instantaneous. Can you come for the funeral?”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow. The family tried to delay it, but-”

_Have you spoken to Fuji? Will he be there?_

All that Tezuka will say is, “Yes, I will.”

Where’s the pen? There’s the dayplanner on the nightstand.


End file.
